You Can Walk It Off Just Try
by Nym P. Seudo
Summary: "A Great Knight once told me that we are defined by our scars. Every mark is an indelible reminder of failure: a nail un-parried, a club un-dodged. The shell does not record triumphs, only mistakes."
1. Chapter 1

**You Can Walk It Off. Just Try.**

_**1**_

_Maskflies_.

That was what those winged little things were called. Quirrel couldn't place who had told him that, but it seemed like an apt enough name. Dozens of those creatures perched on the mossy cavern walls, peering down at him with dark, slitted eyes. A group of them milled about on the path ahead, and he paused to observe.

They hopped from moss clump to moss clump, bending briefly to snap bites, jerking upright to scan for threats. They repeated this process in a sort of dance—backs arching, wings fanning, heads pivoting from side to side.

Quirrel felt an urge to sketch one of the creatures, to immortalize the moment in parchment and ink. If only that cartography shop hadn't been closed. If only he knew how to draw… He took a step closer, but in a flutter of wings the maskflies were gone.

They were certainly nimble creatures, vigilant and quick to flight. Quirrel appreciated attributes like that, the sort which were all too necessary in Hallownest.

He resumed his stroll, resolving to circle back to the surface at some point and pick up a quill or two.

The abundant verdure and waterfalls summoned the name _Greenpath_ to Quirrel's mind. He couldn't pin the origin of this word either, but that didn't bother him. The past wasn't worth dredging through, at least not at the moment. There were so many far more interesting things ahead, waiting just beyond the next bend in the tunnel.

Moss sighed beneath Quirrel's feet, bushes rustled against his outstretched arms, and cool beads of water speckled his shell. Greenpath seemed like such a gentle place, made of fuzzy edges and amiable hues. Even the sporadic pools of acid roiled in merriment. He passed a vine-covered bench, and the mood of it was so inviting that he considered taking a nap right then and there.

But he decided against it.

For all the delight swelling in his chest, Quirrel could not blind himself to the threats lurking beneath the leaves. Fool eaters flanked the beaten path, their thorny maws poised to close around anyone heedless enough to wander near. From the thick, waxy consistency of their roots, they were clearly well-fed.

Quirrel stopped.

_Fool eater?_

Where had that name come from? One of the locals? No. An old scroll, then? He couldn't recall having ever read a scroll… or seen one for that matter…

A noise shattered the glass of Quirrel's reverie, a clang, metallic and strident, coming from somewhere far away. Its dying echoes trailed down a moss-flanked tunnel as though beckoning him.

The noise resounded a second time, a third, and Quirrel finally recognized what it was.

Battle.

Before he could even consult with his legs, they were in motion, charging after what? Adventure? Peril? Fate? He did not know, but at the least it would be something new!

Quirrel skidded over a bed of fallen leaves and into a cavern jagged with stalagmites. A dozen winged creatures flitted around the spires, jabbing at a retreating blur with their nail-sharp proboscises. The blur—a bug, a warrior?—lashed out at them with a weapon of its own. The cutting edge of a glaive swept out and up, narrowly missing one of the flying things and following through to slam against a wall.

Cringing against the sound, Quirrel tried to make sense of the battlefield, but too much was obscured behind the stalagmites. He clambered onto a ledge along the cavern wall and looked down from his new perch.

The room was like a maze, and the warrior bumbled from one dead end to another. The flying things—the s_quits,_ Quirrel somehow knew—hovered just out of the warrior's reach, taking turns hurling themselves down like lances. The warrior evaded with nimble steps and shrugs, always remaining a thread's width from danger. Yet, their every counter-attack failed. The glaive—the double-_bladed_ glaive!—performed more like a percussion instrument than a killing tool. It struck the walls, the floor, and a half-dozen stalagmites, but never its intended target.

Quirrel's shoulders were a knot. He had clamped a claw on the hilt of his nail without even realizing. What was he to do? Leap to the rescue? Was that really the reason he'd come? But when had he ever willingly joined a fight? He was here to observe, not kill. Surely, this didn't concern him, no need to gamble his life so soon. There were so many wondrous sights still to be seen, he didn't want one rash decision to end the journey before it had truly begun.

The warrior took a fall—a bad one. The crunch of shell and gasp of pain reached Quirrel even over the squits' droning. Propped against a stalagmite, the warrior lifted their glaive with one arm, warding the proboscises with exhausted swipes.

The nail rattled in Quirrel's grip. He cursed silently and crouched low, readying to lunge. But before he could act, a shriek rent the air.

No, not a shriek, a roar, a thrashing, twisting sound that sent tremors through the cavern, rattling the ceiling and sending sheets of dust tumbling down.

The squits were caught in the reverberations, wobbling like boats on rough waters. Their precise, predatory formation fell to pieces, and they fled the cavern, scattering down tangent passageways.

Quirrel knelt, not daring to move, not daring to breathe. He waited for the sound of some great terror to drag itself across the stones, for the sickening crack of a shell being torn open and feasted upon.

But there was nothing. Not after one minute. Nor two.

Whatever produced that roar must have wandered elsewhere, and for that Quirrel thanked his bountiful luck. With the squits dispersed, he supposed it was time to check on the warrior. If that bountiful luck persisted, then they would be more willing to exchange words than blows.

He hopped down from the perch and wove through the stalagmites, making his steps slow and exaggerated, announcing his presence. The last thing he needed was for the warrior to strike him down in fright.

"Hello?" he warbled.

After a few turns, he came upon the warrior's slumped form. If from injury or lunacy, Quirrel couldn't guess, but the warrior hadn't fled at the roar. Their glaive was braced against the ground, ready to skewer the next foe.

Quirrel cocked his head, now finally being granted a clear look.

_Mantis_.

Another name out of the dark.

But that was what she was. A female mantis. One of the warrior tribe. And a _lord_, at that, with long limbs, articulated claws, and lustrous horns.

"Stop!" The mantis rasped. "Not another step."

Quirrel obeyed. "Easy now," he said softly. "I'm no threat to you."

The mantis cast a look to the nail at Quirrel's waist, and to his claw still clutching the hilt.

With a start, Quirrel let go and raised his arms in an assuaging gesture. "Honestly, I mean no harm. This little barb is for self-defense, nothing more."

Using the stalagmite for support, the mantis labored to her full height. She loomed over Quirrel, a good head taller, though if she sought to exude menace, her injuries stymied the effect. The carapace of her right shoulder bore a nasty fracture, and she hid that arm beneath the folds of a half-cloak. "Why have you come here?"

By just a fraction, Quirrel relaxed. Hallownest had so far taught him that any bug still capable of posing a question was far less dangerous company. He cleared his throat. "In all truth, I couldn't say. The sound of your clash set my legs in motion before I could object. I suppose some part of me felt the need to investigate."

"The sensible tend to flee from battle," the mantis said, "not charge at it. Are you in your right mind, bug?"

"Ha! How would I answer that? If a mad bug knows itself as such, is it still mad? I'd certainly call myself sane, but that's no guarantee."

The mantis hummed. "You are a strange one, it seems…" She shifted her hold on the glaive and leaned on it like a makeshift walking stick. The act seemed meant to convey ease, but from the tremble in her arm, she was on the brink of collapse.

"Are you alright?" Quirrel ventured.

The mantis grew rigid, as though the words had been a slap. "Quite. Now, I hope that you are satisfied with your investigation, for I must bid you farewell." She turned to leave. "I have a matter to attend to else—" but her balance failed, and she toppled. In the midst of the fall, she reached out with her right arm to catch herself, but half the limb simply wasn't there.

Quirrel thought to help, to grab her by the shoulder, but he was far too slow.

The mantis hit the ground in a heap, her clattering glaive quick to follow.

Had he seen that properly? Her arm was _missing_? Had it been severed in the battle? Were mantis so hardy that they could share a conversation moments after losing a limb?!

Quirrel hovered about the fallen mantis, debating whether to move her. He possessed no bandages, no skills in the healing arts, no knowledge of mantis anatomy. He wished that his ephemeral memories would offer something more useful than names and vague notions. If only he knew how to splint a carapace or staunch the flow of blood.

But wait…

Blood.

There was none. Not a drop. On the mantis or the cavern floor. Did her kind not bleed?

Quirrel crouched beside the mantis and listened to her breath. At the very least she was still alive.

"Warrior, can you hear me?" Quirrel asked. "May I aid you?"

The mantis' only reply was a half-conscious mutter.

For the lack of an alternative, Quirrel took it as consent. He heaved her off the stone and placed her against a stalagmite. The fracture on her shoulder looked painful, but far from life-threatening. The arm was likely to be the more serious problem. Gingerly, Quirrel lifted the half-cloak. The arm was indeed missing, at least partially. It ended just below the elbow, sheared off by some terrible force. But it did not bleed, for it had scarred over long ago.

Something struck Quirrel in the chest, and he found himself painfully seated upon the ground.

"I said no," the mantis slurred. Her remaining arm was raised defensively, and it occurred to Quirrel that she had just shoved him, but so quickly that he hadn't even processed.

Quirrel rubbed at his lower back. "Sincerest apologies, but you seemed in need of a helping claw."

"I am fine." The mantis shook her head, attempting to retrieve her bearings. "Do not concern yourself with me."

"Is that so? I'm a stranger in these lands and know nothing of local customs. Is it a common practice to collapse face-first after battle? I'll be sure not to overreact next time."

The mantis huffed and attempted to stand but couldn't muster the strength. She gave Quirrel a long, analyzing look. "What is it you seek? Something must motivate your persistence."

"What do I seek? Why, adventure, of course!" Quirrel trilled. "The urge to explore and discover is what motivates me! So many outlandish tales radiate from this old kingdom. It's a perfect place for an intrepid bug such as myself. I intend to delve its depths and spy its every time-lost marvel."

"Hallownest bears no kindness for the frail," the mantis said. "Not to shatter your hopes, but you will likely die long before achieving that goal."

Quirrel shrugged. "Perhaps, but a life spent without new experiences is no life at all. Already I've seen things beyond my imagining, and I only just arrived!"

"Fair enough, but what is it you desire from _me_? I wish you luck on your quest, but I cannot share in it. I have my own ends to pursue."

"Oh, don't worry, I'm in no need of a guide. I prefer to do my own wandering. But as I've hinted, the history of this land is unknown to me. If you've any tales, or legends, or even words of advice, I would very much like to hear them."

The mantis was silent for a moment. "…Words, then…? That is all you demand…?"

Quirrel waved a claw. "No, no, not a demand. I can offer a trade of sorts. There was a bench not too far back. You would find it a far more comfortable spot to recuperate than here. If I served as a trusty crutch, would you reward me with a story or two?"

The mantis let out a single, terse laugh. "When first I saw you with that nail in your grip, I thought you a bandit after my glaive and my Geo, not some starry-eyed explorer intent on stories."

Quirrel leaned back, looking down at himself. "Do I have a sinister look about me?"

"No," the mantis said thoughtfully. "No, you do not."

Quirrel labored down a mossy tunnel, his gasps and grunts reflected back to him in the resonant air. Had he foreseen the toil that this trade entailed, he might have heeded the mantis' warning and left her alone.

For sweet mercy, was she _heavy_!

From only sight, Quirrel would never have guessed. She was lithe and slender as a vine, but from the weight of her, she felt like a stone statue brought to life.

Quirrel's legs trembled like a newborn stag's, and with every step he bent closer to the ground. The mantis' left arm was thrown over his shoulder, and still gripped the glaive. The slicing edge of the weapon dragged behind them, periodically sparking against the stones and chance pebbles. They had been traveling at this shambling, four-legged pace for what had seemed like ages.

To distract from the burning, Quirrel craned his neck and locked eyes with the mantis. "How do you fare? That clash with the squits was a fierce one, no?"

"You do it too much credit," she said. "To clash, one must land a blow. I did no such thing."

"Still, your evasion was quite a sight, and you wielded that glaive well enough, considering your arm."

The mantis made a dispassionate noise and carried the conversation no further.

"Does your injury pain you?" Quirrel prodded. He was realizing that the bench was much farther off than he'd first judged.

"It is not terrible. I have survived things more dire than a cracked shoulder."

Quirrel glanced down at the mantis' trailing legs. They dug narrow wakes through the moss, barely seeing use. "Any other wounds?" he grunted.

"Not of significance," she said. "A few scrapes."

"And your legs?" The tunnel began to slant upward, and Quirrel hurled his strength against it.

"Hale and healthy."

"I see." Quirrel took a few ragged breaths. "A relief. Shame it would have been if they were—impaired."

"Indeed," she said, a peculiar lilt in her voice.

"Have you recovered—much of your strength?" Black spots danced at the fringes of Quirrel's vision.

"Most, yes, thanks to the efforts of my trusty crutch."

"I'm—pleased to hear that. Take no offense, but—do you believe that—you could walk on your own if needed?"

"We have not reached the bench," she said. "What of our agreement? Do you no longer wish to hear my stories?"

"No, no. I wouldn't—dare to betray my word, but—" he swallowed, his throat achingly dry. "—Are you playing—a game at my expense?"

The mantis's laugh was low and tender. "Nothing of the sort." She shifted her weight, making Quirrel lurch.

With a titanic heave, Quirrel managed to right himself. "Oh, really, now?" He tried to loose a laugh of his own, but it came out as a strangled growl. "Those must be grand stories—for you to guard them so jealously, mantis. But do not think—I'll abandon your game so easily! This only makes me wish—to hear them all the more!" He mustered his will and planted one spasming leg after the other.

The tunnel began to level out, and just as they reached its apex, just as Quirrel's sight flickered and grayed like a dying lumafly, the mantis spoke. "You have a Knight's heart, bug. If not its might." And she stood.

A mountain evaporated from Quirrel's shoulders, and for some reason the last of his energy with it. He crumpled to the ground, gulping for air.

The mantis observed him from her great height. "Are you well? Shall I carry you instead?"

Quirrel did not speak but waved a limp claw.

Carefully, so as not to jostle her injured shoulder, the mantis knelt beside Quirrel. She laid her glaive on the ground and stared down the tunnel from whence they'd come. It was a steep, winding passage, rife with slick moss and loose earth. "Pardon the game," she said quietly. "It was a cruel thing to do."

"No, the apology—should be mine," Quirrel gasped. "I promised you aid, but—misjudged my strength. I'm afraid I—must resign as your crutch."

The mantis picked up a pebble and flicked it down the tunnel.

"At least now—you needn't waste your time—on stories," Quirrel said.

"These days, my time is not so precious. Ask what you please, you have earned that much."

Quirrel propped himself on his elbow. "Really?"

The mantis nodded.

"May I know—your name, then?"

"Anthem," she said after a pause.

"It bears a musical ring," Quirrel chortled. "Is it—common amongst mantis?"

"No," she murmured, and then louder, "but what of you? It feels improper to call you bug."

With a deep breath, Quirrel steadied himself. He sat up and offered Anthem a claw. "Quirrel is the name. A pleasure."

She took it, in a firm grip that bordered on painful. "Likewise."

"You know me as explorer, vagabond, and creature of burden," Quirrel said. "But I know little of you. What is your path?"

"Not so different from yours, I am merely a wanderer."

Quirrel rested his elbows on his knees. "Modesty, hmm? An admirable trait, but I'd wager you've led a far more eventful life than I. Your noble bearing says much, even if you do not."

"Does it?" Anthem asked. "And what has my bearing told you?"

"What indeed?" Quirrel rubbed a claw on his chin. "That you are a banished queen? An oathless Knight? A slighted warrior on a quest for revenge?"

Anthem stiffened, though at what Quirrel couldn't tell. Had his silly conjectures grasped at some truth? He didn't press the moment, however, and let Anthem reply in her own time.

"Perhaps something like that," she said.

Quirrel laughed. "Careful. Mystery is welcome enough in a good story, but too much and you risk confounding your listener."

Anthem shrank. "That is not my intent, I—" She paused, seeming to collect her thoughts. "Shall we walk to the bench as we talk?"

"Are you well enough to travel?" Quirrel asked.

"Are you?"

"Ha! My life may have flashed before me, but I'll survive another trek, so long as you do not expect me to ferry you."

"Fair enough." Anthem picked up her glaive and stood. She offered the haft to Quirrel as a clawhold and when he accepted, lifted him bodily from the ground.

Quirrel dusted his shell, admiring the ease to the mantis' strength.

She shifted under his gaze and cleared her throat. "Shall we?"

"Oh, right, of course."

As Quirrel and Anthem walked, the sounds of Greenpath—the crackling foliage, the sizzling acid, the furtive chirps—eddied all about them, pooling in the introspective gaps between their conversation.

Quirrel inquired on all manner of subjects, from flora to fauna, geology to architecture, history to legend. The only subject he shied away from was Anthem herself.

She seemed all too willing to oblige his questions. Each of her answers grew longer than the last, as though the stream of her words ate away at some long-entrenched barrier. Even as they came across the bench and settled onto its cold, metal slats, their talk carried on.

During a particularly long stretch of contemplation, Anthem voiced her own question, the first in a fair while. "What do you know of the mantis?"

"More than I should," Quirrel replied, "but less than I'd like."

"W-What?" Anthem quavered.

"Since my arrival in these lands, I've begun to recall certain details that I rightly shouldn't. Stray names and facts appear in my mind that I suspect were never learned to begin with. For instance, at first glance, I knew you to be a mantis, though I've never encountered your kind before in my life."

"Oh. I see."

Quirrel nodded. "Additionally, I knew you to be a lord, a most prestigious position in the mantis caste, yet that knowledge came without the slightest context. I know nothing of what makes a lord prestigious, or even what the mantis caste is." He shrugged and chuckled. "Quite puzzling, no?"

Anthem looked away. "I am… not a lord."

"Really? That complicates the matter. Does that mean all these ephemeral thoughts have been false? Were those angry, jabbing creatures not actually called squits?"

"No, no. You are not mistaken. I am a lord in form, but not in right."

Quirrel cocked his head. "Pardon?"

Anthem's grip tightened on the bench. "My tribe disowned me before I was granted the trial of lordhood."

A shrilling warning rose in the back of Quirrel's mind. Good sense told him not to probe further, but it was all too swiftly drowned out. "If… you do not mind the inquiry, why were you disowned?"

"For all manner of reasons: power, statecraft, my own damnable pride."

Quirrel inched closer. "You remember my earlier chiding about undue mystery, yes?"

She gave him a look. "Would the story of my life truly aid your quest?"

Quirrel made a show of considering. "Possibly. We won't know until it's all said and done."

"It is not a pleasant tale," she said, "nor is it brief."

"We have a comfortable bench and abundant time, don't we? I'm no stranger to grim tales."

Anthem relaxed her grip and rested her claw in her lap. "Very well. My early life was spent amongst the tribe, my first form as a soaring youth, my next as a bladed warrior. I was nimble then—and fierce—not what I am today. As only a clawful of my kind do, I survived long enough to near the final stage of my life—that of a lord. It is tradition for those that undergo this transformation to challenge the lordly council, either proving their worth and claiming a seat of their own, or… perishing. Before my change and my lord-trial, the kingdom of Hallownest approached the tribe, offering a bargain of peace.

"You were alive while Hallownest still stood?!" Quirrel blurted.

Anthem flinched. "—Yes, though only in its latter years."

"How can that be? The kingdom is but a memory! Could anything possibly live so long? On the surface I passed an ancient-looking bug that claimed the kingdom had collapsed before even his time."

"Death does not come to mantis by old age, but by battle. I have never heard otherwise. The eldest lords only meet their end in either defense of the tribe or in a lord-trial."

"That's a cruel fate," Quirrel mused, "forcing the lords to battle into their final days. The mantis have little reverence for the elderly, it seems."

"To my kind, it is better to die on one's feet than to wither away into weakness. It is considered a blessing to be struck down in combat, not a cruelty…"

"But do _you_ believe that?"

Anthem's voice rose high and brittle. "Shall I continue?"

"Y-Yes," Quirrel said, making himself small upon the bench. "Apologies, do go on."

"At that time, Hallownest was a voracious maw, snapping up territory wherever its legions could march. The mantis lords accepted the offer of peace, for the only alternative was destruction. To sustain that peace, the tribe agreed to become a shield against the Deepnest, though that was not the only service required of us. The Pale King, the ruler of Hallownest, demanded our finest warrior as tribute. A competition ensued within the warrior caste, and I emerged as the lone victor. Had I not been so blinded by the thirst for glory, I might have recognized what that victory entailed."

"Banishment!" Quirrel exclaimed.

Again, Anthem flinched. She shifted farther down the bench, restoring the buffer that Quirrel had erased in his captivation. "Correct. After my triumph, after I entered into the dormancy of metamorphosis, the lords exiled me from the village. To their reckoning, I was the property of Hallownest, and thus no longer a true mantis… My cocoon was hauled away to the Pale Court, and I never beheld the village again."

"You paint a malicious picture of your tribe. Perhaps parting from it was a good thing."

Anthem nodded, but without agreement. She stared into a rippling waterfall across the path. "Even now I am compelled to wonder… why? Why did the council punish me so? For spite? For fear? Was I so dreaded a foe that the lords would rather cast me away than face me in battle? Was I so barbaric that they thought me unfit to join their ranks?"

Quirrel made an incredulous noise. "You? Barbaric? Certainly not."

"Just as this land, I have changed much over time's passage. You would not know me then, and that is for the best. If I gleaned a single thing from my service to Hallownest, then it was restraint."

"But what of that service?" Quirrel asked, leaning in. "What of Hallownest? If even a fraction of the rumors were true, then it must have been a glorious sight! Something to at least rival your old home!"

Anthem was quiet for a time. "That was the King's word: _glorious_. When I emerged from my metamorphosis, displayed before the Pale Court like an exotic creature, He proclaimed it glorious, the heralding of a new age of cooperation between our people. To that purpose—vain though it was—He gave me the name _Anthem_." She said the word slowly, as though tasting its bitter contours. "Amongst the mantis, only a lord is considered worthy of a name, and only lords may grant it. I was not a lord, for I had passed no trial, yet that King presumed to inflict one upon me…"

She stopped and looked to Quirrel, as if waiting for an outburst.

But Quirrel only shook his head. "Go on," he whispered.

"I would rather not," she said. "Some ills are better left to the past. Content yourself to know that I was many things in the King's service: caretaker, sentinel, executioner. None of these would I care to relive. In time the kingdom fell, and with it my obligation of service. Now I am bound to nothing, a lone wanderer in a dead land."

"Oh." Quirrel thought to voice some cheerful note, some witticism to brighten things, but it did not come.

Across the path, in a shallow basin beneath a waterfall, something floundered. Quirrel hadn't noticed it before, so enraptured had he been. It was a creature, small and fragile-looking, its dark body heaped with leaves.

_Mosscreep_.

It had fallen somehow, and was laying on its side, stubby legs flailing uselessly in the air. Leaves and droplets of water were kicked up in a frenzied cloud, but the mosscreep could not right itself.

It seemed in dire need of assistance, and though the idea crossed Quirrel's mind, he only continued to watch. A paralysis had taken hold of him. He could not muster the will to walk over and tip the thing onto its feet.

The mosscreep's thrashing slowed and eventually stopped, ending in something like exhaustion, something like acceptance, something like death.

Quirrel balled his claws so tightly that they hurt. "Wait!" he shouted, "Does your tribe still live?"

"Hmm?" Anthem stirred as though from a dream. "To my knowledge, yes. Time was far gentler to them than Hallownest."

"Have you considered returning? After so many years, it's possible the lords that cast you out have already passed. I'd guess a new council would care little about your half-forgotten banishment. They'd be fortunate to have such a worldly, well-traveled lord as yourself amongst them."

But even as Quirrel's voice rose with the momentum, Anthem was already shaking her head. "No," she said. "It is a warm thought, but no. Even if that were so, I would still have no hope." The stump of her arm rose out from beneath her cloak. "There is no use to a maimed lord. I could not repel unworthy aspirants, nor protect the tribe from danger. They see those such as I as only a burden to be discarded."

"How did it happen?" Quirrel asked, the words slipping out.

"Excuse me?"

"How—" He hesitated, hearing that warning shrill yet again.

"My arm?" Anthem asked quietly.

Quirrel gave a single nod.

She stood. "I must go."

"No, wait, I'm sorry," Quirrel extended a claw. "I shouldn't have pried! Please stay, there's so much left to discuss."

"Seek no forgiveness. In truth, I should be offering thanks. You have returned me to my purpose. The only purpose that remains." And she strode away.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**I've done it! I've tricked you all into reading my story about a Hollow Knight OC! I'm so pleased I could cackle maniacally! Muaha!**

***ahem* but anyway.**

**This was originally meant to be a brief, 2,000 word gift story I could complete in a week, but... that didn't exactly pan out. As is my way of doing things, this story bloated to over four times that, so it needed to be broken in to a couple chapters. I'm still tweaking the ending, but expect the conclusion fairly soon. Sorry for my cruel cliffhanger ways.**


	2. Chapter 2

_**2**_

Of all the questions he could have posed, it simply _had_ to be that one.

Quirrel shot to his feet. "What purpose?"

But Anthem did not answer. She did not turn. Quirrel and the bench diminished behind her.

"What do you mean?" Quirrel asked, louder. After an unanswered heartbeat, he was in pursuit, pausing only to rectify the stranded mosscreep with a hasty nudge.

Anthem traversed the tunnels in long, deliberate steps. Her glaive was out before her, parting the hanging moss with curt slashes.

Quirrel found himself running just to keep pace. "What do you mean?!" he repeated, the boom of his voice giving Anthem no pause.

"As I said, I have a matter to attend to. You need not accompany me on it." With a graceful leap, she crossed an acid-filled precipice.

"Yet it has only now become pressing? Is this another game?" Quirrel summoned his strength to follow and felt his gut twist as he narrowly cleared the gap.

"Not a game, no. Had you not stumbled upon me, then I would have seen this finished already."

"Seen _what_ finished?"

She stopped just long enough to consider a trampled bit of foliage. "You yourself guessed it. I am no oathless knight, no banished queen, only a broken warrior seeking revenge."

Quirrel chased her down a path of overgrown cobbles. "Against whom?"

"A creature resides in these mossy chambers. A towering shadow, a stalking fiend. You heard it once already. Its roar alone scattered those squits."

There was a prickling upon Quirrel's shell. He already knew the answer yet couldn't stop from asking. "But why?"

She tore through some obstructing brush with a savage chop. "It took my arm, Quirrel! My martial prowess, the only thing left to me in this world. I mean to steal from it in kind, no matter what may come."

Quirrel pushed through the shredded greenery. "That creature already bested you in combat? At the peak of your strength?"

"…It did."

"Then why do you pursue it? You've no hope! You realize that, yes?"

Anthem kept her gaze low, intent upon the path.

"Your shoulder is still injured!" Quirrel added. "You cannot accomplish this!"

She strode on. The shadows deepened, and the sickly-sweet smell of rot hung in the air.

"Then it's suicide?!" Quirrel shouted.

But Anthem said nothing.

Quirrel's breath came in painful gulps. "Stop this! Have some sense! What happened to that restraint you prized?"

She wheeled on him, so abruptly that they nearly collided. "I expended it all indulging your frivolous questions! I will do as I see fit with the dregs of my life. There is no vow binding you to me, wander elsewhere if this upsets you so." And just as quickly, she was back in motion.

For the first time in their walking debate, Quirrel stopped. He felt as though he really had collided, but rather chest-first into a frigid wall. The rustle of Anthem's steps began to fade around a corner, and for the slightest second Quirrel considered turning back, washing his claws of the obdurate mantis, and going on his own merry way. But something deep within him could not abide that. He dug his feet into the damp earth and raced after her.

Quirrel found Anthem before an arched tunnel unlike the others he had so far seen. Spikes ringed its entrance, and as Quirrel drew closer, he realized that they were not spikes at all, but huge, curved teeth nearly half his height. They were scattered all about the area like warding totems and disappeared into the tunnel's depths.

Anthem stood with her glaive at the ready.

"Please," Quirrel said, "It's only an arm. A loss, certainly, but you still have your life. Do not throw that away. Do not let this wound define you."

Anthem laughed, but it was patchy and mirthless. "Amusing that you would say that. A Great Knight once told me the very opposite, that we are defined _only_ by our scars. Every mark is an indelible reminder of failure: a nail un-parried, a club un-dodged. The shell does not record triumphs, only mistakes."

Quirrel swiped at the air with his claw. "That's miserable counsel!" He could feel the petulance in his voice, but he didn't care. "A bug is more than its shell—more than its limbs! If that _Great Knight_ thinks that—"

"Quirrel."

He stopped.

"Thank you," she said.

"Wh-What?"

"Thank you for your time. For your words. But you have done enough. Go now. Witness the wonders of this land. Do not look back for me."

"…Must you do this?"

But she faded into the tunnel without a goodbye. The only sign of her passage was the slither of displaced vines.

Quirrel thought to follow, but his legs denied him. A stink of menace permeated the place, and his well-worn instincts urged him to leave. Quickly.

He walked a tight circuit. And then another. He strained to hear any signs of combat, but there was only silence.

"Are you really so stubborn a fool?" he hissed. Though Anthem was long since gone.

He hurled a kick at one of the giant teeth and immediately regretted it. As he knelt to clutch his throbbing foot, a stillness settled on him. "Am I?"

A slow, caustic breath escaped his body, and he stood. "So it seems."

As Quirrel pressed through the vines, they seized and snagged at him, enjoining that he turn back. The tunnel was stifling and dim, saturated with a feral redolence that made every step harder than the last. He silenced the morbid chatter in his mind, suppressed the tremor in his arms. He had committed himself to the path, just as Anthem had.

With a bloom of light, the vines parted, and a verdant cavern opened before him. Within stood Anthem, and beyond a strange sort of cave occupying the center of the floor. The cave was composed entirely of leaves, and like the tunnel entrance, its opening was ringed with giant teeth.

Quirrel swallowed the lump in his throat and placed himself at Anthem's side.

She gave him half a glance. "It is too late to dissuade me."

"Oh, you needn't worry, I've abandoned that folly."

"Then why do you linger? See to your own quest while you still may."

Quirrel made his best attempt at an easy shrug. "But I _am_ seeing to my quest! If I'm to witness this land's wonders, then I'd best begin here. I can think of few things more extraordinary than a hero's duel."

Anthem's defenses slackened. She turned to him in full. "What?"

Quirrel loosened his nail from its silken belt and drew it for the first time in what had somehow felt like ages. "I would be remiss not to experience this myself."

Anthem was stone-still for a moment. "It seems I was right," she whispered. "You are indeed a strange one. But as you wish." And she returned to her battle stance.

"So," Quirrel said, scanning the room, "where does the creature lurk? In that cave, I'd wager?"

She almost laughed. "In? No."

Within the darkness of the cave, six luminous eyes snapped open, and a roar—the very same that had frozen Quirrel in his tracks—ripped through the cavern. The earth shook, and Quirrel staggered, but then the roar suddenly stopped.

A rasping voice reached out through the ring of teeth. "A scent. Close and familiar. The prey returns. But why?"

Anthem took a step forward. She lifted her glaive and pointed its piercing tip at the glowing eyes. "Rise, monster! You will not catch me unaware again."

There was a rumble, something like amusement. "It is wounded. Yet it seeks to hunt me. Bold. Stupid. This time I will take its other arm, then it will understand its place."

With a great trembling, the cave rose into the air, shedding leaves and twigs like layers of dust. An emaciated body, segmented and midnight black, held it aloft.

Quirrel startled, falling back a step. He labored to comprehend what he beheld. The cave was its… head? Those shadowy segments its limbs? The tooth-ringed cavity its mouth?

"Steady," Anthem whispered. "or it will wield that fear against you."

Quirrel closed both claws around his nail. "Right!"

The creature loomed, massive and terrible. Its long, pointed fingers flexed, and Quirrel couldn't help but notice that each was the length of his own body. "It brings aid," the creature observed, setting six eyes upon him. "A sorry sort of pack."

"Why so verbose, monster?" Anthem asked. "You did not spare me a single word at our last meeting. Do you hesitate? Is that cowardice I sense?"

The creature's retort was a roar so intense that Quirrel could feel his organs vibrating. It leapt, cratering the earth with the force, and soared through the air. With clutching hands extended, the creature descended toward Anthem.

She let out a warning shout and threw herself to one side.

The creature impacted in a geyser of dirt and pulverized stone. Its arms threshed this way and that, slicing the veil but not finding their target.

With a shriek and an arc of sparks, Anthem's glaive slashed the creature's back. It grunted—in either pain or surprise—and darted out of the weapon's range. The creature retreated into the heaps of foliage ringing the cavern. After a rustle, it disappeared without a trace.

Anthem stepped out of the hanging dust, shaken but intact. "Be wary! It will strike where you are most vulnerable!"

"Weak," growled the creature. Its voice carried from somewhere beyond the wall of green. The acoustics of the place made it impossible to pinpoint. "Without strength it cannot harm me, not then and not now. Yet still it hopes to try."

There was a rush of air, a murmur of disturbed leaves, and a high shadow upon Quirrel's shoulder.

"Look out!"

Quirrel dove, and a dread hand slammed into the ground where he had been standing. He rolled and skidded to his feet, spinning about to face the creature. But it was not there. It had vanished back into the foliage.

"How is that hulking thing so swift?!" Quirrel shouted. He withdrew to the center of the cavern and Anthem followed, pressing her back to his.

"Keep your wits," Anthem said. "We are performing much better than my last encounter."

"But have we even scratched it?!"

Anthem grew quiet. The only sound was Quirrel's heavy breathing.

"I know of a way we might succeed," she whispered, "though it would ask… much of you."

"Ha!" Quirrel lowered his voice in kind. "What have I to lose? I'll hear it."

"You must drop your guard and allow it to take you."

"Pardon?"

"I have witnessed its habits. It prefers to understand its prey before the kill. The creature will grapple you first. As it prepares to disassemble you, it will be vulnerable. At that moment, I will take its arm."

There was a wild flutter in Quirrel's chest. "_Disassemble _me? Have we no other option?"

"None."

Quirrel willed his heart to slow, reminding himself that there was no choice to make. "I'll do it."

Anthem nodded. "Then approach the brush. And do not flinch."

Quirrel's legs were like lead, but he did what was asked, making a show of prodding at the bushes with his nail, all the while feeling the creature's eyes upon him.

"It believes me deaf, does it?" a guttural voice asked. "That its whispers are not a screech to my senses?"

In an explosion of leaves, a gray-black blur shot out to snatch Quirrel by the torso. He struck with his nail on reflex, but it was slapped from his claw so forcefully that every joint in his arm popped. A second blow fell on him, and the world spun a mad dance. Once it slowed, Quirrel found himself suspended in the air, eye to eye with the creature.

"It thinks too much of itself," the thing said.

Quirrel tried to cry out, tried to offer Anthem some warning, but the hand clenching his chest made that—and breathing—impossible. He scratched uselessly at the carapace of the creature's arm.

Across the cavern, Anthem crouched, her long legs bulging beneath her. She leveled her glaive, braced it against her side, and shot forth like a thunderbolt. She flew in a perfect arc, glaive readied for an overhead slash. But as she neared, the creature whipped around. It lifted Quirrel as though he were a nail meant to parry Anthem's blow.

There was no time, no way to stop. A vision of decapitation flitted through Quirrel's mind. But at the last instant, Anthem twisted about, altering her blade's trajectory. The flashing metal narrowly rounded Quirrel's body, and instead connected with the creature's wrist.

Another scream of metal on carapace, another sheet of sparks. Anthem's warped momentum sent her slamming to the ground. She rolled and pitched, her glaive clanging away into a dark corner. She slid to a stop and lay very still.

Quirrel fell, impacting flat on his back. He sprawled, dazed and coughing. Where was the creature's hand? Surely Anthem had severed it. Despite the protests of his shell, Quirrel pushed to a sitting position.

"No," he breathed.

Several paces off, the creature—not a mark upon it—towered over Anthem's unconscious body.

Extending two, ebony fingers, the creature grasped Anthem by the arm and dangled her in the air. She came to and began to thrash, kicking at the creature. It closed its other hand around her torso and squeezed until she stopped.

"Enough," the creature said. "This hunt is finished. A noble prey knows when to embrace the end."

"Bring me my glaive and I will show you an end!" she snarled.

The creature only chuckled and began to pull. Anthem's arm strained in its socket. There was a sickening crack. She did not cry out, however, which gave the creature pause.

"It does not wail. It does not fear." The creature's huge, bushy head lowered for a closer look. "Is it even the same prey?"

Quirrel lurched to his feet but before he could act, he was just as quickly back upon the ground. The world tremored around him, and his legs barely heeded any commands. The blow he suffered was proving much worse than it had first seemed.

"Go on! Take it!" Anthem cried, forcing the words even as she choked. "But slay me this time, or I will have your life if it takes my every limb!"

The creature hummed, an ugly, graveled sound. "It is fiercer now. Interesting. But ferocity is nothing without strength." It tensed, preparing to rend Anthem's arm.

But then came a pattering. A wet, dribbling sound.

The creature stopped.

Blood, pale green and glistening, was streaming down its wrist and onto the parched soil of the cavern floor.

The creature looked from the growing puddle, to Anthem, and back again. "You wounded me."

"As I promised," Anthem gasped, "free me—and I will do—far worse."

The creature laughed in great, rippling waves.

Quirrel fought to his knees but could manage no further.

"Long, long has it been since I saw my own blood," the creature said. "Greater beasts than you have tried and failed to draw it, yet here I bleed."

The hands slackened, and Anthem dropped from the creature's grip.

In a dizzy burst, Quirrel dove forward, catching her as best he could, though he served more as a cushion than a net.

The creature carried on as Anthem gulped and heaved. "You are stronger now than you were before, and yet weaker. You could not pierce my shell when last we met, yet now you can with only a single arm. You were nothing but listlessness and fear, yet now you are audacity itself. How?"

She had no answer for the creature and only trembled—in wrath or pain, Quirrel could not guess.

The creature leaned back, lifting a hand to its darkened maw and extracting something from within. "You are not prey. I feel it now. And if you are not prey, then you must be a hunter. But can a maimed thing truly hunt?"

The smoothed shell of a long-dead bug clattered to the ground. Its surface glittered in the ambient light, revealing a scrawl of strange, runic script.

The creature crouched, bringing its eyes closer to Anthem's level. "My spare journal. All that I have learned from the beasts of this land. I offer it to you, broken hunter. Go forth, prove your strength. Stalk and kill. Decipher its meanings and grow mighty."

With Quirrel's aid, Anthem sat up. "Do not toy with me! I care nothing for your journal. If you seek some apprentice, then look elsewhere. I am here for your life, not your tutelage!"

The creature nodded, almost indulgently. "Yet you cannot take it. You are still too frail. But with time and my journal, that may change. Return to me when you think yourself ready. I will be waiting."

With that, the thing rose and paced back to the cavern's center. It shuffled a leisurely circle before laying down and once again disguising itself as a leafy cave.

And all returned stillness.

A minute of gawking silence stretched by, Quirrel's gaze upon the creature, and Anthem's upon the fallen journal.

When it became clear that the creature had no intention of springing back to life and finishing its hunt, Quirrel risked a few words. "Did… Did we survive?"

Anthem stirred in his arms. "By the whim of a monster, so it appears."

"…But what now?"

"I had hoped to pose that question."

With agonizing slowness, Quirrel tottered upright. A numbness had seeped into him, making everything indistinct and remote. He wondered if it was a lingering effect of the creature's attack, or merely that feeling of vacancy brought about by the sudden departure of terror.

Anthem seemed in no better state than he. Her carapace was scuffed and cracked, especially her arm with its spiderwebbing fractures. She sat in a ball, legs bent to her chest. "Our weapons," she said, not shifting her attention from the journal.

Quirrel pressed a claw to his pounding head. "Ah, yes. I'll retrieve them. Just a moment."

It took some time rooting through the deep underbrush, but Quirrel dredged up his nail. The glaive was soon to follow, and as he wiped stray twigs from its gleaming blades, he appraised it for damage. There was none, of course. It was a fine tool, razor sharp and expertly balanced. Anthem clearly invested much into maintaining it. Quirrel envisioned the battles it had endured, the foes it had slain, and to what ends it would inevitably be wielded…

A thought bubbled.

Should he leave the glaive where it lay? Hide it, even? Anthem had made her intentions clear. If he returned it to her, then she would surely lunge at the creature again, and Quirrel doubted the thing would be so forgiving the second time.

From the start, Quirrel had known this bid for vengeance to be utter madness and witnessing the creature's savagery in person had only hardened that truth in his mind. Without her weapon, would Anthem abandon the hunt? Would she find another purpose, one that did not end in doom?

He looked about for a crevice, a pit, a dark cavity beneath a shrub. But he stopped. Another thought rose, bursting the first.

Did he possess any right to shape her fate?

Quirrel emerged from the brush, nail upon his belt, and glaive under his arm.

Anthem was exactly as he'd left her, as though no time had passed at all.

"Not a mark upon it," Quirrel said, proffering the glaive with only slight hesitance. "A fine twist of luck."

She did not react.

"Anthem?"

The chitin of her arm crackled as she reached out and closed her claw around the journal. "It is time to leave."

Quirrel balked. "What?"

"Even a mantis' obstinacy has limits." She stood, panting from the pain.

"I'm not one to question a sound idea, but… are you really finished here?"

For a long moment, Anthem stared at the lightless jaws of the cave. "Yes. There is no reason to remain."

Quirrel gave a sharp nod. "Then let's not tarry." He sidled up to her and offered his shoulder.

"I thought you had renounced your life as a crutch," she said.

Quirrel couldn't stop his bubbling laugh. "After this most recent trial, buttressing you seems a trivial task in comparison."

"Very well," Anthem chuckled. She draped her arm over him and leaned.

But lightly, ever so lightly.

_**[End]**_

* * *

**Author's Note: Well there you have it, folks. I considered continuing this story, but I feel like I've said all that's really worth saying. I hope you enjoyed the story. If you're so inclined, then feel free to leave some feedback. I always enjoy reading comments.**


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